I know what you're doing, assholes in Hollywood. And it ain't funny. You think you can put out some movie where a short-haired, skinny, pencil-necked scrote (Edward Norton) turns into a ripped, massive battleship of a motherfucker overnight and I won't read between the lines, fuckface?

I didn't get to be a Major League baseball player by being stupid. Do you think I'm stupid? Is that what you're saying? Did you just call me a bitch? Is that what I am to you? A silly-ass bitch?

You think I haven't heard of allegories, metaphors, analogies, et-fuckin'-cetera? I wasn't born yesterday, pal. I know a trend film is trying to fuck with Barry Bonds when I see it.

And then you top off the irony by making the dude racist???  Motherfucker, don't talk about me like I ain't in the motherfuckin' room!

The dude can bench press a cow. Hmmm.  The dude hates the Jew-devil media.  Hmmm.  Yeah, I get the point.  Eat shit.  Next time why don't you have him legging out triples in the World Series?  Real subtle, guys.

So some media queers are saying that the Boston Red Sox should hire me to play Designated Hitter for them.  I'm never one to sound desperate, but I would so fucking eat someone's children for that opportunity.

I'll confess, sitting around my tax-free Beverly Hills mansion with nothing to do isn't as amazingly cool as people think.  My wife won't return my calls and eHarmony says I'm only compatible with reptiles and Ann Coulter.  Even my own son is more interested in something called a "Wii" (I didn't ask) than entertaining his own Pops.

I even tried to call Willie Mays to shoot the shit, and someone who sounds a lot like him answered and said he was at baseball practice.  I thought he retired in like the 1970s or something.  Whatever, I ain't no fuckin' historian.

Point is, the Red Sox would be nuts not to sign me.  Here's why:

1. Boston is a racist town.  I'm a racist dude.  I told those grand-jury honkies that brothers gotta hold on to they cash:

...there's not too many rich black people in this world. And I'm keeping my money. There's more wealthy Asian people and Caucasian and white. There ain't that many rich black people. And I ain't giving my money up.

I know, I know, I once said I'd never go near you white-hood wearin' mother fuckers.  But there's nothing like 9 months without a paycheck to give a brother a change of heart.  So come on, Boston, you and I need to hold hands and hate the shit out of people together.

So now there's 15 motherfucking charges in my indictment? 

Why doesn't anyone ever fill me the hell in on this shit occasionally?  Do I get a call from my lawyer?  No.  Do I get a note from the prosecutor?  The ball-bustin', motherfuckin' judge?  Nah.  I read it in one of the 27 different cutout articles about me that I have delivered to my house every Tuesday. First one I picked up. There it is in big, bold letters on the front page: "Fuck you, Barry Bonds."

It wasn't even a "fuck you" for today!  This shit was news on May 14th.  May motherfuckin' 14th??? 

And what's this "superseding indictment"?  The fuck is "superseding," man?  Those cockeating shit stains are making up new words just for my trial.  I'm the first motherfucker in criminal prosecution history that convinced motherfuckers to add words to Black's Law Dictionary.  This is some shit. 

To answer your first question, no, none of them asshole white MLB owners has broken from the party line to offer me the millions per year that I know they have. What are they doing with that money, anyway?  Buying yogurt?  Elton John CDs?  Pilates lessons? 

But the point of this blog post is to remind YOUR asses that HBO is still planning a movie about me. That's right. So after they manufacture enough prosthetic muscles and special effects to properly simulate my insanely awesome feats of freaking amazingness, the first question is: who's got the nuts to play me?

Don't worry, babybirds, I've been working on a list to feed you with:

1. Barry Bonds: Duh. I'm out of work, I used to draw 45,000 fans a night, and you know goddamned well I'll hit every note pitch-perfect in this performance.

2. Samuel L. Jackson:  That skinny-ass motherfucker can at least play a supporting role as me in my Pittsburgh Pirates days, when I actually used to waste my talent on stealing bases and running out infield hits and shit.  Plus, If he could throw in a few bible verses about "great vengeance" and "furious anger" like he did in Pulp Fiction, that'd be sweet.

3. Robert Downey Jr.:  I never even heard of this black-as-night motherfucker until I saw this movie poster:

See that crazy-ass look in his eye?  It's perfect.  If I have prior engagements, he better not be busy, and HBO better not be a bunch of cheapasses.

Looks like some pencil-necked pussy has seen it fit to name 10 teams that could use my services. Truthfully, the list of ballclubs who "could use" my services numbers about 12 million (and I'm not counting Mongolia's Triple-A clubs). So it would be easier to make a list of about 5 worldwide teams that don't need my services. Otherwise this blog will be all about my favorite dietary supplements, and I don't talk about that shit unless I get paid:

1. Zurich Greenbacks: First, I don't play in mountains with the Sounds of Music and shit.  Besides, those Euro-trash honkies who play for the Geneva Vaginas or whatever would intentionally walk me all game long, and I didn't crank out 15 reps of 535lbs on bench yesterday so I could stand at first base and wait for a pinch-runner. Get Rickey Henderson on the phone, you no-army-havin' Nancys.

2. Kabul Rock Lizards: There are two kinds of terrorist training grounds in the Middle East -- the kind with the DH, and the kind without.  Kabul would trade me straight over to Islamabad, and I ain't about to sign that many motherfuckin' leases. 

So Roger Clemens (hereafter: "Pigfucker") was allegedly having an affair with a teenage country music star back when Pigfucker was 28 and the girl was 15.  Nice.

I wonder if the honkey-lovin' press is gonna bend Pigfucker over the way they did me. Probably not. They'll probably lightly cornhole him with that short, skinny media dick that they save for pretty-boy celebrities. That would figure.

But let's pretend they're not pussies. How about another "Game of Shadows," you media rectal warts?  How about an intricate narrative of his abusive, philandering behavior. A lotta noise was made when news that I bought my mistress a house in Arizona was broken.  Will the Houston Chronicle be doing a Sunday pullout with a similar story?

Maybe Pigfucker built a treehouse for his little yodeling Lolita. Maybe inside that treehouse he introduced her to OxyContin, while he injected steroids into his ass, all the while thinking it was Vitamin B-12.  Pigfucker: "Whoops!  I just blew my load on your geometry homework!"

Here's a little peak into MY life.  Everyday, it seems people ask me the same three questions:

1. Are you a champion of Civil Rights in baseball, or just a champion for Civil Rights?

2. Did you ever put Jeff Kent in a Special-Forces-like choke hold for sitting on your locker-room recliner? and

3. Have you been working out?

The answers to all these are, of course,"yes," and "what the FUCK do you think?"

Lately, I've been getting a new one. "Barry, are you pissed that the SF Wax Museum took your body down to the basement?" Hell, no!  I told those crackers to get rid of that abomination. Why?  I'll tell you why:

My 762nd home run ball, the last one I hit in 2007, just sold for $376,612. That's a cool $600,000 less than what the bastards thought it'd go for at www.scpauctions.com. I know what you're thinking: "Barry's probably going to put his massive head through a Sheetrock wall like the Incredible Ebony Hulk, and then terrorize downtown in ripped jean shorts!  Hide your white women!" 

First of all, enough with the steroid jokes. If I want to break Sheetrock, I'll use my fist like any other ordinary person with anger-management problems, 300% testosterone and pending federal indictments. And if I want your white women, I'll just ask, and they'll come, won't they?

Oh the payback's a bitch.  The Giants barely get past April Fool's Day and the joke's on them. One minute they're banging inflatable phalluses against each other in celebration of my freaking awesomeness, the next they're a bunch of moralists cheering for losers and  trying to erase my memory from their brains, as if memories of ridiculous profit and National League Pennants are so horrible. I mean, kayak sales have tripled since I started hitting balls into the bay.